“Great stuff,” Clark said. He crumpled the sheet and took the bottle into the bathroom. He poured the pills down the toilet and flushed it, watching as the pink capsules swirled, and were gone.
7. ADVANCE, INC.
HE SAT IN HIS apartment and thought over what had happened to him. He decided that it had all been very peculiar, and very unenlightening. He could, of course, make further calls; he could check with Sharon Wilder’s other doctors, and with George K. Washington, whoever he was. But he had the strange feeling that nothing would come of it, and meantime, there was his Mexico trip to plan for. He was about to call his travel agent when the phone rang.
It was Harry, the intern. “Listen, Rog, I thought you’d want to know. Andrews, the Chief of Medicine, just called. Wanted to know about people urinating blue.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I told him about the two cases you had, and described them.”
“And?”
“And he thanked me and hung up.”
“No explanation?”
“None. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he called you later.”
“Okay,” Clark said. “Thanks.”
As soon as he hung up, the phone rang again.
“Dr. Clark speaking.”
“Clark, this is George Andrews.”
“Hello, Dr. Andrews.”
“Clark, I’m calling about some patients you’ve seen. An Angel named Arthur Lewis, alias Little Jesus, and—”
“Sharon Wilder.”
“Yes. That’s right” Andrews seemed surprised. “How did you know?”
“They were the same kind of patient.”
“That’s what I wanted to speak to you about. As I understand it, they presented with coma, no localizing signs, no respiratory or cardiac depression, and no after-effects when they recovered. Is that right?”
“Yes sir.”
“And they both urinated blue?”
“Yes sir.”
“The reason I ask,” Andrews said, “is that I just got a call from Murdoch at San Francisco General. They get a lot of the Berkeley drug abusers, as well as the Hashbury loonies. Yesterday they got five people in coma as the result of a police raid. General didn’t know what to do about them, so they waited, and the people all came out of it. And there was this blue urine business as well. Murdoch wanted to know if we’d had any similar experience.”
Clark frowned. “He had five cases?”
“Five. Everybody up there is terrified of more. Murdoch’s convinced a new kind of drug is going around. They don’t know where it’s coming from, or who’s making it, or what the chemical nature is like. And the kids aren’t talking, when they come out of the coma. They claim they don’t remember.”
“Perhaps they don’t,” Clark said.
“Exactly,” Andrews said. “There may be a retroactive amnesia. Clark, this could be a serious problem. Very serious. Have you investigated your two patients at all?”
“As a matter of fact, sir, I have. I suspected a new drug, and I’ve looked into their history of ingestion as carefully as I could. I spent the morning with Sharon Wilder’s doctors—”
“Good man.”
“—and came up with nothing.”
Andrews sighed. “Very serious problem,” he repeated. “I can’t urge you strongly enough to follow it up. You know,” he said, “you and I must have a little talk soon.”
“Sir?”
“Well, the hospital has to decide on a chief resident for next year.”
“Yes sir.”
“This drug thing is a very serious problem, very serious indeed. Anyone who clears it up will be doing a great service to the medical community. An immense service. As I recall, you’re going on vacation soon.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have a good time,” Andrews said. “Ill talk to you when you get back.” And he hung up.
Clark stared at the telephone for several minutes, and then said aloud, “I’ve been bribed.”
He rummaged through his notebook and came up with the list of Sharon Wilder’s physicians. At the bottom of the list was George K. Washington. Office number: 754–6700, extension 126.
He dialed it. After a moment, a pleasant female voice said, “Advance, Incorporated. Good afternoon.”
“Extension one two six, please.”
“One moment, please.”
There was a click as the switchboard put him through. Then more ringing, and another woman’s voice.
“Dr. Washington’s office.”
“This is Dr. Clark calling from LA Mem—”
“Oh yes, Dr. Clark.”
Clark stopped. Oh yes?
“We’ve been waiting for your call,” the girl said. “Dr. Washington is in conference now, but he asked me to tell you an appointment has been set up for four this afternoon. You can discuss the job with him at that time.”
“The job?”
“Yes. You are applying for a job, aren’t you?”
“Uh…yes.”
“Well see you then, Doctor.”
Clark hesitated. There was obviously some mistake, but he might as well take advantage of it.
“One question,” he said. “How do I get there?”
“Take the Santa Monica Freeway to the Los Calos exit, then go north a quarter of a mile. You can’t miss it. There’s a black sign that says Advance, Incorporated by the road.”
Clark hung up and scratched his head. He thought about the name of the corporation; it seemed very familiar. But he could not remember where he had heard it before. After several minutes, he put his tie back on, slipped into his jacket, and headed for the parking lot.
The secretary had been right. It was impossible to miss the sign. It was constructed of black stone, with white lettering:
ADVANCE, INC. BIOSYSTEMS SPECIALISTS
He turned off the road, and parked in a lot alongside the main building, which was starkly modern, walls of green glass. The building was two stories high, and about as large as any of a dozen other small, specialized scientific firms around Los Angeles. In recent years, attracted by government contracts and good weather, scientists had flocked to Southern California, which now had a greater number and higher concentration of scientific minds than any other place in the history of the world.
He paused to look at the building, and wondered what went on inside. He couldn’t tell; it might have been anything from electronics to political science research. He went through the large glass doors to the area marked “Reception.” A woman looked up.
“Can I help you?”
“My name is Clark. I have an appointment with Dr. Washington.”
“Yes, sir.”
She telephoned, spoke briefly, then turned to Clark.
“If you’ll just have a seat, please.”
Clark sat down on a Barcelona chair in the corner, and thumbed through an issue of “The American Journal of Parapsychology” while he waited. In a few minutes, a heavyset guard appeared.
“Dr. Clark?”
“Yes.”
“Please come with me.”
Clark followed the guard down a corridor. They stopped at a nearby room. An old woman was there, surrounded by electronic equipment.
“He’s to see Dr. Washington,” the guard explained.
“All right,” said the woman. She nodded to a camera. “Look over there.”
Clark looked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her press a button; the camera clicked.
“State your name loudly and clearly for our voice recorders.”
“Doctor Roger Clark.”
“No, no,” the woman said. “That will never do. Just your name.”
“Roger Clark,” he said.
“Thank you,” the woman said. She produced a form. “Sign here, please. Waiver of liability.”
“Waiver?”